Last week, things escalated. Tyler spilled an entire container of strawberry yogurt onto my laptop keyboard while I was in the bathroom. The keys stopped working.
Strawberry goop seeped between the letters. I had to use my phone to finish a project that was due that afternoon.
The same day, Marcus found dry-erase markers in my desk drawer and decorated my living room wall with colorful hearts. Blue, red, green, and orange scribbles covered the section.
“What happened here?” I asked, staring at the damage.
Marcus looked proud.
“I made art! Auntie said she likes color.”
“When did I say that?”
“You wear colorful shirts.”
I couldn’t even argue with six-year-old logic.
The next morning, I missed a crucial call with a potential client because Tyler was having a meltdown over the “wrong” cup. He wanted the blue one.
I’d given him the green one. Apparently, this was an unforgivable offense that required 20 minutes of screaming.
When I finally called the client back, they’d already gone with someone else.
That account would’ve been worth $2,000.
That evening, I confronted Daphna when she came to collect the boys.
“We need to talk,” I said, blocking the doorway.
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